With the meal concluded, the four of them placed their wooden utensils in orderly fashion upon the low table.
Dadan, ever attentive, reached for a modest clay jug and, with quiet grace, poured fresh water into each of their carved wooden cups.
They drank in silence, broken only by the occasional discreet murmur of a polite belch, unspoken acknowledgement of a meal well taken.
Then, stillness returned.
Eman sat upright, his posture composed, hands resting upon his knees.
A solemn cast had settled over his features, the light in his eyes now sharpened with purpose.
“We shall begin,” he declared, his voice calm yet resonant, carrying effortlessly through the hushed room like the toll of a distant bell.
Doctor Zein, Zara, and Dadan instinctively gathered their composure, their postures aligning with quiet reverence.
Not a murmur passed between them. Each sat in perfect stillness, the air around them hushed, expectant.
A silence more profound than mere quietude settled upon the room. The kind that falls before truths of weight and consequence are spoken.
They understood, without the need for words, that what Eman was about to unveil was no simple recollection, no idle reminiscing.
It was a chronicle long veiled in shadow, a revelation poised to reshape all they thought they knew.
“At the time, I was but a man of twenty or so… young, and dare I say, striking in appearance,” Eman murmured with a wry glint in his eye. “Though clearly, not half so dashing as yourself, Mr Zein.”
A gentle laugh followed, light and fleeting, no more than a ripple upon the surface of a still pond, meant to ease the tension that hung quietly in the air.
Doctor Zein, Zara, and Dadan responded only with the faintest of smiles.
They shared a glance between them, each one subtly mirroring the other’s expression, and then, almost in silent agreement, shook their heads slowly.
“That would place it, precisely… four hundred and thirty years ago,” Eman continued, his voice growing quieter, as if the very number itself carried the echo of time long passed.
Eman’s gaze grew distant, fixed on some unseen horizon as though conjuring images from a time long buried beneath the dust of centuries.
“Four hundred and thirty years ago,” he said, his voice edged with a quiet gravity, “the world was engulfed in chaos. And ours, this land was no exception.”
“War was not an event. It was a condition of daily life. Bloodshed and pillage had become the rhythm of existence. In some corners of the land, the teaching of violence had been formalised, enshrined as a virtue, even passed from teacher to pupil as though it were arithmetic or scripture.”
Doctor Zein, Zara, and Dadan remained silent, drawn into the slow, solemn cadence of Eman’s words.
Their posture was attentive, almost reverent as though they sensed the weight of what was about to be laid bare.
The room, though modest, felt suddenly vast, its quietude pregnant with the echoes of a history not yet spoken.
Eman continued, his tone mellow but unwavering.
“There was no central rule. Authority, where it existed, belonged to warbands and factions, men with weapons and ambition, not vision."
"The common folk endured beneath their boots, waking each morning unsure whether they would see nightfall. Even home, the final refuge, offered no promise of sanctuary.”
He paused, drawing breath, and his eyes found Zein’s.
“In those days, I was a keeper of a mountain temple far to the north. But it was no ordinary shrine."
"It served not only as a house of worship but as a citadel of knowledge, an archive of forgotten lore, a crucible of learning."
"There, within stone walls older than any map, lay secrets of the world’s true history, of forgotten magicks, and of the energies that undergird all living things.”
Zara’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, “Have you always possessed such power, sensei?”
Eman offered a faint, wistful shake of the head, “No. That strength came much later bestowed upon me only after I was entrusted with a relic of great significance."
"An ancient artefact known as the Crystal of Aramia. It hails from the era of King Aramia himself, and its power can only be awakened by those whose energy resonates with a rare and particular pattern.”
Dadan’s eyes widened, his voice tinged with disbelief, “So... the crystal granted you that strength?”
Eman gave a solemn nod, “In time, yes. But not without cost. The path to mastery was long and fraught with hardship."
"Years upon years of unrelenting training, spiritual trials that tested every fibre of my being."
"Only after enduring all that did the change begin, my body ceased to age. That is how I have endured... through the centuries.”
Doctor Zein inclined his head slowly, the weight of Eman’s words settling over him like an ancient fog.
Eman’s gaze drifted, as though seeing not the present company but the ghosts of years long past.
“For four centuries I have wandered, taking many forms, teacher, monk, scholar, even humble farmer."
"I lived in shadow, preserving what I could of the truth, guarding every fragment of knowledge tied to King Aramia and the remnants of his reign.”
Then his eyes, sharpened by the weight of memory, returned to Zein and Zara.
“And now,” he said, his voice low but resolute, “the signs are returning. Echoes of a power long buried are beginning to stir."
The time has come. You must know everything. No more veils, no more silence. Only truth.”
The chamber once again descended into a reverent hush.
No sound stirred, save for the faint, imagined ticking of time within the minds of those present, each absorbed in the weight of unfolding revelations.
At last, it was Doctor Zein who spoke, his voice low but resolute, "How did you first come to know of King Aramia, Master? What was his true name? And why does he, too, bear the name Al-Ghifari?"
Eman’s gaze held firm, his tone laced with gravity as he met Zein’s eyes.
"My first encounter with King Aramia was through ancient scrolls, sealed within a hidden sanctum deep beneath the temple where I once served as guardian."
"His name, ‘Aramia’, was not his own. It was an honourific, a title conferred upon him by the many nations he brought together, kingdoms once bitterly divided, now united under his hand."
Zara’s voice was barely above a whisper, "Then what was his real name, sensei?"
Eman answered with the quiet certainty of one who had carried truth through centuries.
"His name was Rashdan Al-Ghifari. He was the progenitor of your lineage, Mr Zein, not merely a monarch, but a brilliant tactician, a scholar of rare insight, and the most powerful sorcerer of his age."
Doctor Zein inhaled softly, the name striking a chord deep within him, "So… the Al-Ghifari bloodline has long played a vital role in history?"
Eman inclined his head with solemn conviction, "Indeed. The Al-Ghifari name belongs to one of the founding lineages of the World’s Guardians, an ancient order sworn to maintain the balance of power across epochs."
"Rashdan was the first of his line to step out from the shadows and lead openly. After his death, his name was woven into legend: King Aramia."
He paused, his eyes distant, as though revisiting secrets buried deep, "But not all was preserved. Much of his story was concealed, some of it lost deliberately, to protect the delicate equilibrium he forged."
"Too much knowledge, in the wrong hands, could unravel everything he sacrificed to build."
Eman held Zein’s gaze, his expression now layered with both reverence and burdened remembrance.
“That is why I have kept a quiet vigil over you since your earliest days,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “You, Mr Zein, are the blood-heir of Rashdan Al-Ghifari. And that means… you are the rightful inheritor of the power he once commanded.”
Zein’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice measured but edged with sharp clarity, “Watching over me?” he echoed. “That’s an odd way to put it, Master. You challenged me to a duel.”
A fleeting smile crossed Eman’s lips. Wistful, not mocking.
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of memory.
“Yes… you are not wrong,” he admitted, a trace of sorrow beneath the candour. “I did challenge you. Not from doubt, but from necessity.”
Zein’s voice came low and steady, “Necessity to confirm what?”
Eman’s eyes, deep with the weariness of centuries, locked onto his, “To confirm that you are truly of the First Line. That what runs through your veins is more than a name, more than a legend."
"I needed to see your essence! How you think, how you choose when pressed, how you stand when tested. Those are the hallmarks of the Aramia legacy.”
He paused, the silence stretching like the hush before an ancient storm. Then he bowed his head slightly.
“I confess… I had forgotten what it looked like. Centuries blur even the clearest of truths. But when you stood before me today, not just with strength, but with restraint, then I remembered.”
Zein remained silent, his breath still. Zara and Dadan, too, sat motionless, as if the air itself dared not intrude upon the revelation.